


Speak Not Of Love

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Adultery, F/M, Forbidden Love, Love Affair, Love Triangles, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:39:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she is 16 years old, the beautiful and socially successful Princess Kuragin falls in love with an officer of little means and no connections. So starts an affair which will span years, marked by repressed passion, unspoken words of love and an constant impossibility of being together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak Not Of Love

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful **red_b_rackham** has made beautiful fanart for this fic! You can find it [ HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/943823)

The mirror of Princess Helene Kuragin’s dressing room showed a fine portrait of a young society maiden about to come out at her first real ball. A girl of sixteen going on seventeen with silky curls folded up into a fashionable hairstyle, small gloved hands, a prominent breast laced up into a corset and a long off-white gown which accentuated her hips and brought out the color of her hair, lips and crystal-grey eyes. 

The girl gave herself a calm, charming smile and tried to settle her nerves. She had been preparing for this moment for years. The parties that she had been to before were all very private, but this was the first time that she would be at a true ball, the sort of high society event which would define her life from this night. She tried to picture the older noblemen, their gossipy wives, the other marriageable girls and, of course, the young men. Like most girls her age, Helene saw before her an officer when she thought of the latter category, but her more sensible side was telling her that she may have to catch the eye of a plain civilian if he were a good match. 

The one advantage Helene felt she had over her age mates was that she did not get quite as caught up in romantic fantasies very often and she considered herself quite practical. Her self-control was always monitored by her French governess and she was certain that she could take both a victory and a defeat with the same expression. 

Nonetheless, she was sixteen and this was her first ball.

“Helene, are you almost ready?” The girl turned as her father’s voice came floating up to her room from somewhere in the vicinity of the grand staircase. Helene grabbed her fan, smoothed the folds of her dress and went to the door. She opened it with a nervous jerk, only to find her elder brother standing there. 

“Ah, finally, Papa sent me to fetch you,” Prince Hippolyte intoned without much interest. He looked over her, squinting slightly for his eyesight had always been bad but he refused to wear glasses. “You look lovely, Helene. My baby sister is all grown up.”

Helene gave him a scornful look. “I’m hardly your _baby_ sister, seeing as there are merely three years between us. If you chose to act like an old man at nineteen, Hippolyte, that is your problem.” She smirked familiarly at him and gave his arm a small whack with her fan. 

Hippolyte shrugged and offered her his arm. Helene took it and lifted her chin, practicing for the promenade without even meaning to. Sequences of dance steps replayed themselves in her head and she smiled inwardly to herself when she could recall all that had been taught her by her dance master. At the top of the stairs, she smiled, in the same practiced manner she had in her own room before the mirror and allowed Hippolyte to lead her down. Below, her father, mother and younger brother were waiting. 

Vasili Kuragin looked up and smiled at his daughter. “Ah _ma charmante_ , Helene! See now, Hippolyte, why can you not dress sensibly like your sister?”

“I do not understand, Father. This color is very fashionable right now.” Hippolyte looked uncertainly down at his cream britches and dark green frockcoat. Helene caught Anatole’s eye and smiled slightly; her brother grinned childishly in return. Hippolyte let go of her arm and looked between his two siblings uncertainly. “Well, if there is an issue, I cold always change, but—“

“No, no, we can’t be any more late than we already are,” Vasili said resignedly, waving his hand at his elder son. “Your clothes will have to do.”

“It’s not like Hippolyte has anything more normal to wear,” Anatole piped up. 

“Anatole, behave yourself,” Aline Kuragin put in, giving the boy’s shoulder a sharp squeeze. “You have been disobedient all evening. Enough already or I will have to tell your tutor to punish you.” 

Anatole pouted. “But you will not let me go to the ball. Why can’t I go, Mama? I dance as well as Helene.”

“Because you are not old enough. Anatole, this is final,” Vasili put in sharply. “In three years I will consider it.”

“Three years, that’s forever!” Anatole made a dramatic gesture and sank back into childish pouting. 

“Don’t worry, Toto. I’ll tell you all about it!” Helene promised happily, ruffling Anatole’s hair affectionately. Despite their difference in age, Helene had always been far closer to Anatole than to Hippolyte. He leveled her out somehow. His impulsiveness contrasted with her conservative caution. Helene cared little for the social norms themselves but she cared that people _think_ that she cared about them. Anatole, however, did not care and did not wish to pretend like he did. 

Anatole followed the rest of the family out onto the porch and watched as they got into the carriage. Helene felt her nerves spike and suddenly wished that Anatole was coming with them so that they could giggle together on the way there, sharing little jokes and stories as they had done as children whenever there was a tense situation. She looked out the window of the carriage and waved, clutching at her fan with the other hand. 

Anatole waved back and shouted his goodbyes as they drove off, bouncing on the balls of his feet. When the carriage turned the corner and Helene could no longer see him, she sat straight and focused her eyes ahead, resigning herself to listening to her father’s lecture on how she should behave herself – even though the rules of etiquette were well known to her – and who, among the guests, was the most interesting and important persons. 

The carriage ride seemed to last for ages.

*

The double doors to the grand ballroom opened to reveal a spectacular chamber lit by hundreds of candles. The large chandeliers glittered spectacularly in the bright light. Helene tried to not look around with too much awe as they entered the ballroom, her parents in front and she on Hippolyte’s arm behind them. The lively music resonated within her and she instantly felt like dancing. 

They approached the host and hostess and Helene, automatically, on habit, sank into a brief, respectful curtsey. She gave a calm smile, which betrayed none of her internal agitation. There were some more introductions which went by in a haze. Finally, her father offered her a glass of champaign off the tray of a passing waiter and said, “Go on, my dear. Find your friends and dance.” He touched her cheek with encouraging fondness. 

“Yes, Father.” She turned and headed for the opposite side of the room. Helene lifted the flute to her lips and drank in hopes that the alcohol would go to her head just a little and her nerves would calm. On the opposite side of the ballroom gathered several small clusters of young maidens. Helene knew some of them, although she would not call them her friends. For whatever reason, girls did not care much for her and she did not care too much for their company either. There was something in the romantic babblings of most girls of marriageable age which made Helene wish she could roll her eyes without looking indecent. 

Helene joined the first group of girls she came across. Among them were Annette Rzhevsky, Princess Anastasia Hovansky, Countess Alexandra Zakrevsky and Maria Rokotov. Annette was a petite girl of nineteen. Her pale blue dress brought out her blue eyes tastefully and everything about her face was fresh and dainty, except for her nose which was just a little too large for her face. She lacked a titled but her dowry was rumored to be quite significant, therefore her dance card was already half full. She was a romantic girl, like most, but Helene sensed that she at least had enough sense to hold these sentiments for suitable men. 

Anastasia, was a fair-haired and pink faced young woman of twenty. She was fiddling nervously with her fan, as she usually did at any social event. She had been out in society for three years now and yet very few suitors had asked for her hand, of which she had only seriously considered one and her parents none. There was nothing exactly revolting about the girl, but Helene, who had a manner of learning from other’s imperfections and mistakes, could instinctively tell that she lacked a certain female grace and her clumsiness was well known. Perhaps this was the effect of trying to emulate her two elder brothers, yet Helene doubted that Anastasia would be more successful with a saber than she was with a fan. 

Alexandra was far too tall for a girl as she was taller than at least half the young men Helene knew. Aside from her astounding height, the countess was quite lovely. Her delicate features, full, kissable lips and smooth skin made her face one of the most attractive in the room. She wore her auburn hair in a simple yet elegant bun with large flowered clips. Helene did not feel intimidated by her, yet she was very well aware that Alexandra was competition, even if only for the taller half of the male population. She was mild in manner and light in step when she danced and her rather impressive breast and wide hops – not to mention the sizeable dowry – made her a very desirable dance partner. At seventeen, she still had plenty of time to secure a husband. 

Maria Rokotov Helene was not very familiar with. She did notice, however, that the girl was extremely beautiful. Dark haired with eyes as dark as coal, there was almost something wild in her features, if only it wasn’t for her perfectly smooth, pale skin without a single freckle on it. Despite her petite frame she was very shapely with a tiny waste, wide hips and a supple breast. Her dress was plane, obviously not very expensive, but its bright crimson brought out both the lush darkness of her hair and the fairness of her skin. Helene, trying to remember what she might have heard of the girl or her family, gathered that she was probably not very well dowered and therefore had mostly her reputation and charms to rely on. In the end, that was the most important capital to have, Helene figured, and decided that it would do to be cautious of this girl. 

“I think the champaign is great,” Anastasia said liltingly, fanning herself quickly. It was a little stuffy in the room from all the people and the warm night outside, but Helene preferred a more languid pace to fanning herself as it seemed more feminine and reserved to her. 

“Oh what of the drinks? The music is more important at a ball,” Annette put in. “I cannot wait for the Mazurkas. Prince Kuragin has asked me and I think he is a very good dancer.”

“My brother does dance better than he speaks, I will give him that,” Helene put in. “When did he ask?”

“Oh just earlier today. He sent a note. Your brother is very gallant, Helene, you should not judge him so.” Annette gave her a reproachful look. 

_My brother is an idiot and I feel sorry for you if he is the best you can do_ , Helene wanted to say. Instead she merely fanned herself and smiled calmly. 

“Now ladies, I think we can all agree, that the men are the most important in this affair, as without them, we would be forced to dance with each other,” Maria added in a tone such that Helene could not quite be certain if she was speaking in jest or seriously. Maria flushed just slightly, very prettily, yet Helene could see through this façade of an innocent maiden. Maria was a lot better versed in the practicality of flirtation than she let on. 

The other girls tittered at the suggestion that they could possibly be forced to dance with each other. “Don’t talk nonsense,” Alexandra said mildly. “Look instead over there. Doesn’t Dmitri Gregorievitch have the best taste in dress? I could swear that is the latest Paris tailing. What would you say ladies?” 

_I think Dmitri Gregorievitch is a pompous, boring ass,_ Helene thought, but said instead, “I believe so. Although the tailcoat is a dreadful color on him. Dark crimson does not go well with the red hair, don’t you find?”

The other girls voiced disagreement, except for Maria who said plainly, “Oh yes, perhaps. Black would look much better. But it is nothing compared to the dress of Countess Legovsky, just look. Although she is a very sweet old lady.” 

The discussion of others took its usual course, in which Helene held her tongue yet did voice pointed disapproval when she felt she could get away with it. Yet, even this reserved decent earned her cries of “Oh! Helene, you are so sharp tongued!” and “Oh, our Helene is hard to please!” And yet they all seemed to look at her, waiting for her opinion and judgment. When Countess Zakrevsky approached them to speak to her daughter, Alexandra exclaimed, “Mama! You know Helene Kuragin. She is so charming.” Helene spoke with the older woman with the sort of studied reverence expected of her and the Countess seemed to leave very satisfied with her. Helene watched as the older woman approached her friends and soon the old crones were looking over in their direction and Helene, with much satisfaction, understood that they were talking about her.

Even Maria Rokotov seemed to defer to her while disregarding the opinions of the other ladies in favor of her own. The girl walked the line between interesting and too-outspoken very well and this irritated Helene. So when she finally got invited to dance before Maria, Helene had to admit to herself that she felt a sort of spiteful triumph. 

*

By the time the mazurka began, Helene’s nerves had settled. She could tell that she was making a good impression. Firstly, because her father was looking over at her with a very satisfied expression, that sort of prideful glint in his eyes which he got whenever a social victory fell his way. Secondly, the girls who had first received Helene with such animated friendliness were now watching her suspiciously over their fans. She could almost hear their condescending, judgmental whispers. It did not bother her much. Let them think what they would, it were the men and the older women who held any sort of importance and with those her night was an obvious success. The old crones had pronounced her charming and the men were quickly filling up her dance card. 

Helene took a glass from a passing waiter. The champagne stung her lips and tongue and she breathed in slowly, unfolding her off-white fan and using it to cover the lower part of her face as she watched a group of young officers from across the room. Annette Rzhevsky and the two young countesses Svetlov – the red-head twins – joined her and began a lively discussion of the young men. Helene barely heard them, her entire attention on the young men across the floor. 

They were officers, mostly of lower ranks, not much older than her. One of them, a warrant officer she would say by the uniform, looked vaguely familiar. Probably one of Anatole’s friends who would come to the house only to disappear with her brother to the playroom or to the garden. He must have felt her gaze for he turned and looked straight at her. Suddenly, she was plunged into a pair of ice blue eyes, cool and sharp yet dancing and amused at the same time. The young officer held her gaze and she suddenly began to feel uncomfortable as he continued to observe her, openly, without much reservation or respect. 

Helene suddenly became very aware of herself: her breasts, the low-sitting corset of her off-white gown, her silken gloves and how their fabric slid over her skin, the somewhat-loose pair of pins in her hair which were allowing a couple of her redish-blonde locks to fall low on her forehead. Irritated, frightened that the heat in her cheeks may be from blushing and not dancing or drinking, she snapped her fan shut and looked away from the insolent officer. He unnerved her – no one had ever looked at her that way. 

“Oh, Helene he’s looking at you!” one of the twins chirped breathily. 

“Who exactly?” she asked, even though she already knew. She could feel that gaze on her, making her skin prickle. 

“The officer, that handsome one. Does anyone know his name?”

“He’s coming this way!” Annette whispered, quickly unfolding her fan so that she could hide behind it. 

Helene pursed her lips, composed her features and turned slowly. There he was, making his way across the floor, weaving through dancing couples to reach her. She had a few moments to get a good look at him. Definitely handsome with those blue eyes and unruly, light-brown curls. She could almost see herself reaching out and touching them, running her hand through them. It was a silly thought but the boy was magnetic. He was around her age, perhaps slightly older, with a poised, confident stride –maybe a bit too confident – and what looked like a permanent smirk playing around the corners of his mouth. 

The officer stopped right before her and gave a short, crisp bow. “Theodore Dolokhov, warrant officer with the Semenov regiment, if you’ll allow an acquaintance.” 

Helene looked at him as levelly as she could without giving away some of her bewilderment. He spoke Russian instead of French which was most irregular and he was introducing himself and not even attempting to take her hand. Nevertheless, practicing that perfect composure her governess and father always went on about, Helene curtsied and offered her hand with a reproachful look. “Princess Helene Kuragin.” 

Dolokhov’s smile broadened and he kissed her hand. “Anatole’s sister, then. I was correct.” 

She gave him her most scornful look, taking her hand back. “Surely you could have found a mutual acquaintance for introductions.” 

Her answer was an insolent smirk. “Perhaps. Does the fact that I did not offend you?”

She should have said yes, but instead, setting her finished glass aside, she looked him straight in the eyes and said, “No.” This was a game that two could play and it would, possibly, be the most fun she was to have all night. 

“Good. I would have been greatly disappointed otherwise,” Dolokhov informed her nonchalantly. “A mazurka, Princess?” 

“I’m sorry. All of mine are taken.” It was true; her card for that round was full. 

“Then why are you not dancing?” Dolokhov asked pointedly. 

This was unfair, Helene thought. He should not have been allowed to speak so freely to her. Who was he anyway? She did not know of a Dolokhov family. Although, thinking about it, Anatole may have mentioned someone by that name but certainly they could not be anyone of significance if Papa had never spoken to her of them. Yet, Dolokhov was right, as irritating as it was. Her partner was quite late. She unfolded her fan instead of an answer. 

“A dance then? No man should get away with leaving a lovely woman waiting.” Dolokhov, persistently, offered her his hand. 

Helene looked at it for a moment as though it was something unusual and foreign to her…then took it. 

Dolokhov carried her off in a wild whirlwind of the mazurka. He danced strangely, not following all the figures but making up for it with interpretive moves which were surprisingly easy to follow. He simply took her where he wanted her to go and Helene felt unusually free in his arms. She did not know why he could not complete a figure set sometimes, as though he forgot or did not know all the steps. But he danced and she danced and it was one of the most exciting rounds of the evening.

When they came off the floor, he asked her for the waltz and she promised him all of them. He asked for the quadrilles as well but she had already given those away and her partners showed up promptly to claim her. When they did not dance, she found Dolokhov to be highly entertaining. They spoke of Anatole first, as a common ground, but then progressed to speaking of their favorite books and plays. She found out he was from Moscow and had come to the capital to serve in the army. His officer stories were highly entertaining and even shocking at times. Dolokhov seemed to straddle that fine line between fascinatingly scandalous and uncouth with the sort of grace and ease that was fascinating and frightening. 

When they waltzed, Helene felt herself floating away as the candles blurred around her. Before this, everything in the ballroom had been in perfect, sharp focus. But the music, the sway and Dolokhov’s warm hand at the small of her back made her head swim into a girlish delirium which she had thought she would never be capable of feeling. 

At the end of the night, he handed her up into the carriage under her father’s suspicious glare and said, suddenly in French, “ _Ce fut un plaisir faire votre connaissance_.” He kissed her hand and his eyes shown with a happy, confident spark in the early morning light. Helene watched him from the window of the carriage as the horses began their trot. She had a bad feeling that she would not soon forget that face, that voice, low against her ear, and those warm hands at her waist. 

*

Helene undressed slowly, almost carefully, allowing her hands to linger over the folds of her dress, not bothering to hurry the maid. She undid the hairpins herself, watching her reflection in the mirror. Her face was still flushed and she tried to think over the night with a cool rationality and composure, the things she had always prided herself on. But just as her nerves had gotten the better of her before the ball, her excitement was getting the better of her after. She sat down gingerly and watched the mirror as the maid brushed her hair. Her silky dressing gown was light and the cool night air drifting through the window made her shiver slightly, but it also felt nice over her flushed skin. 

Helene tried to imagine the faces of the other women and men, calculate who had had more success than her, who less, whom had she managed to impress the most and whom the least. Later, she would feel all of this far more instinctively, with all the weight of experience behind her. But at the moment she was still far too new to this game. 

Yet all she could think off was Officer Dolokhov and the way he had said her name, not quite with Russian pronunciation, not quite with French. He was an interesting mixture of everything, that Monsieur Dolokhov, and Helene could not seem to get him or his face out of her head. He spoke freely to her and seemed to not care if she spoke freely to him. It was unthinkable but he made her laugh far more gaily than she would have liked. Yet…she would like to see him again. 

A soft, yet insistent knock on the door drew Helene out of her thoughts. She looked up and bit her lip. “You may go,” she threw to the maid and waited until the girl had left the room before running to the door and opening it slightly. 

The small, lithe form of her younger brother slipped into the room like a shadow and proceed to the window. Anatole hopped up onto the wide windowsill and swung his legs. “Tell me everything!”

Helene considered him for a moment, then, allowing herself some freedom, skipped girlishly up to the window and sat down beside him. “Oh, Toto it was quite lovely,” she said in a hushed tone. “You should have been there to see all the candles and the dresses and officers in parade uniform! And the band was wonderful. I do enjoy a good band to dance to.” 

“Did you dance plenty?” Anatole watched her with an excitement he always showed for all things social, especially relating to dancing. 

“Yes. I think I made quite an impression.” Helene grinned happily at him. “I think Papa was very happy with me.” She continued to tell him of the girls she had spoken to and how intolerable most of them were, making fun of the manner in which some of them hid behind their fans or put themselves forward gracelessly, or the simpering way in which others spoke, especially to the men. Anatole giggled, pulled his feat up onto the windowsill and buried his face in them. “I wish I had been there,” he told her, face still hidden from sight. “It must have been lots of fun.” He looked up and considered her carefully for several moments.

“What?”

“You didn’t tell me of anyone you danced with.”

Helene gave him a weary look. “Must I truly list off every man I danced with? It would take all night,” she teased, giving his shoulder a light slap. 

“No, just the more interesting ones,” Anatole prompted, making himself more comfortable on the windowsill. “And hurry up, if my tutor catches me out of bed, I’ll be toast.”

Helene giggled and proceeded to list her conquests. “There was this stately General – Lobinsky. He was rather old but not too bad of a dancer for his age. He had very gallant army stories to tell. There was Prince Andrei Ivanovitch, you know, Papa’s friend. He was very kind and gallant, but not that good of a dancer. Solnikov was entertaining, actually, I was surprised. Oh, and the English ambassador, him too. You know, he is quite attractive for his age, I had always imagined him far stiffer in manner.”

“Oh forget about them, they’re all old,” Anatole drew out, rolling his eyes to emphasize his frustration. “I want to know about the suitors, the officers! You did dance with some of them, didn’t you?”

Helene had avoided speaking of the more attractive young men, mainly because then she lost track and began thinking about Theodore Dolokhov again. This would be no good at all, she didn’t even know when she would meet him again and he was hardly a good match for her. It wasn’t even that Helene longed to get married, in fact she thought she would, if it were up to her, remain unmarried forever, but the more dutiful part of her, the part that Vasili Kuragin had raised, instructed her that some husband would have to be procured eventually and it would suite her well to choose wisely in that regard. “Alright, well Count Polievsky, Major Shishkin – yes, he counts, he’s not even thirty yet—“

“Thirty! Thirty is old!”

“Hush. He is twenty-seven if I remember correctly.” Helene grinned impishly at him and Anatole rolled his eyes and lolled his head against the widow. “Luzhanin, Domsky, Repnin—“

“Anyone you liked in particular?” Helene paused for just long enough for Anatole to catch on. “Oh you did! Who? Was it Polievsky? Theodore told me about him, he’s very funny but also a prude.”

Helene flushed. _Theodore? As in Theodore Dolokhov?_ Now that she thought about it, Anatole mentioned a Theodore quite a lot but she had never put much stake in her brother’s little friends, as most of them were younger than she. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.’

“No, tell me.”

Helene bit her lip. “Your friend Dolokhov and I danced quite a lot.” 

Anatole instantly sat up and grabbed her hand, eyes sparking with an amused mischief, an expression Helene knew meant trouble. “I had a feeling the two of you would get along splendidly! Did you—“

“Toto—“

“—like him? Was he nice to you?—“

“Anatole—“

“—What did you think of him?”

Helene pursed her lips. “I thought he was outrageously rude.”

Anatole’s expression fell. He opened and closed his mouth several times, completely unsure of what to say. 

“But also very entertaining.”

Helene watched her baby brother instantly brighten. “You’re impossible!” he cried out, nudging her shoulder with a bit more force that she had expected.

“Hush, someone will hear us!”

“I’m glad you did like him,” Anatole continued in an excited half-whisper. “I wouldn’t want you and my best friend to not get along. He _is_ my best friend, you know. We do not see as much of each other, because he is so much older and everything, but Theodore is by far my best friend. He’s very loyal, you know?”

Helene nodded, mulling everything over. She could still vividly remember Dolokhov’s eyes and the amused way he looked at her, not like he disliked her or even disrespected but, but without putting her on any sort of pedestal the way other men did. At first it had been irritating, but later she found it much easier to simply carry a conversation, without feeling like he was expecting her to be something she was not. 

“Remember the time I fell off my horse and we had all feared I’d broken my leg?” Anatole continued, oblivious to her thoughtfulness. “It was Theodore who had carried me back to the house. Don’t you remember? I know it was years ago, you probably don’t remember and didn’t recognize him. They used to be our neighbors. At the Moscow estate.”

Some vague memory from several years ago floated back to Helene. She remembered the incident with Anatole’s unfortunate horse ride and that a neighbor’s boy had brought him home. She had been too worried about her brother to really notice, but now that she thought about it, a Dolokhov family had lived next to them. She had only been ten or eleven back then and had little interest in neighbors and especially neighbors’ boys. “Why did they move? Did they sell their estate?”

“Right, I forgot. You were in Paris when it all happened.”

“When what happened?”

“Theodore’s father was killed in a duel. He was just barely thirteen then. His father was killed and the family didn’t have too much debt but there was some and then there was the general…how would you say?...loss of income. So they had to sell the estate. The money was enough to cover the remaining debts and to live on for some time, but it’s not very easy for them. Theodore is their main support right now.” Anatole flushed. “Don’t mention any of this to him ever, or even that I told you. Teddy wouldn’t be happy.”

Helene considered all of this. So Dolokhov was of little means, even if he did not act like it. This was disappointing. Her father did not like her to keep the company of men not of their social status. Anatole, of course, was childishly oblivious to all this.

“I could ask him what he thought of you, if you’d like.”

“No, don’t do that!” Helene protested immediately, grabbing Anatole’s hand. “Don’t tell him anything, don’t ask him anything. He must not know that we talked. He would think I like him more than I do. I don’t want to give him reason…”

Anatole furrowed his brows in confusion. “I don’t understand. I thought you do like him?”

Helene sighed. “Just not a word.”

“…Alright.”

“You should go to bed, Anatole.” Helene slid off the windowsill and took him by the hand. Anatole allowed her to lead him to the door. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” He still looked confused when he left and Helene felt that confusion within herself. She had met handsome men before, men she had to admit she desire. But she did not want to desire Dolokhov and, while she desperately wanted him to desire her, there was a danger in that. A danger that his persistence would break whatever resistance she had. She paced to the window and stood there for some time before going to bed, watching as the sky lit up slowly on the horizon, the turquoise stripe widening and expanding, opening up for a new day to reclaim the world. 

Helene dreamed of ball gowns, officers’ uniforms and hundreds of candles that night, only to wake up late and think, _I wonder if he thought about me all last night.  
_  
*~*

The Livanov soirée found Helene in a wonderful mood. She felt lovely in her new green dress with its sheer sleeves and elegant lacing. The white ribbon in her curls took forever to wind but now it glittered in the candlelight, adding an extra sparkle to her toilet. She was successful with the rouge that day and she did not need to worry that it looked unnaturally bright or was barely visible. She felt herself to be the picture of perfection. The weather was breaking now, worsening into cold winds and frost bitten nights, taking over everyone’s consciousness unnoticeably, like a shadow or a ghost. There was something ominous in the coming winter, although Helene had always liked the glare of fresh snow and the way the icicles on the roofs sparkled and glinted. She enjoyed free slay rides, although not so much the freezing wind which blew in her face, but the refreshing winter air had a rejuvenating feeling before. Now, the night simply seemed to lengthen and the hours drag more slowly. Helene was not certain what made her brood as of late – it was nothing in particular she brooded about – yet she could neither enjoy her free hours nor concentrate properly on her lessons. Perhaps this was merely an effect of the snow still being some time away and the present condition rather consisting of mud and rain, a constant wet chill in the air. 

The only saving grace from all this was that the Petersburg season was in full swing. Amidst the rainy afternoons and gloomy mornings, the city glowed with lights of the opera, the theater and the many sitting rooms which opened their doors for guests, some on Saturdays, some on Mondays and Thursdays while others received on Tuesdays and threw a small party every other Friday. There were always calls to make and people to entertain or be entertained by. Anna Scherer was the newly risen star of the political lot and although Helene found them mostly dull, Hippolyte and her father enjoyed that sort of company. Helene had the suspicion that in her brother’s case, this was more a matter of wanting to carry on with the young Lise Meinen who was a regular at Annette’s. Helene was more interested in the abroad oriented crowd, or at least those who talked of the arts. These sort of social gathering were more likely to have talk of much more interesting matters, social or cultural ones. Politics, in their purest form, interested her little. 

One of the wonderful things about the Livanov party was that it was truly a party, not a salon. There was less need for stateliness or involved conversations. Groups would break away and the hostess, although attentive, would allow the guests to enjoy one another. Sometimes, because of the cultural figures that tended to revolve around that family, their house seemed to be chosen as a sort of default flirting ground for young men and girls of marriageable age. Which also made the place ripe for gossip and like most women, Helene enjoyed a good chance to discuss others, albeit her goals in such conversations were more aimed at information rather than at general expression of admiration or spite. Both of those usually looked obvious or ridiculous and seemed to give away for too much about the speaker’s weaknesses. 

Helene had known long before coming out into society that she ought to be weary about revealing too much sincere information to any, even close friends, of which she had very few as it was. The only person she trusted fully was Anatole, but he hardly counted as direct family hardly ever does. The revelation of things which were far too personal, unless intended with a specific purpose, was usually far too dangerous. Omission was generally the best course of action. Making up untruths to fill up the place where truths were supposed to be was not necessary and led to problems. Omission was easier to both keep straight and to justify. And sometimes, she also learned, it was better to say little but to the point and be thought intelligent than to say many things, most of which were badly thought through. 

Fan in hand, Helene smoothed the creases of her dress one more time before heading downstairs, her thoughts collected and happy to finally have some good music and company to look forward to. The last party had been at the Smirenskys and they were clueless of how to have a good time.

*

Helene had not seen him since the previous spring and had almost forgotten about him but their sudden near collision in the doorway to the Livanovs’ drawing room brought everything back into sharp focus. 

Theodore Dolokhov had hardly changed in the last few months so Helene found herself within the same sphere of complete confidence and charisma that he emanated. When they almost collided in the doorway and she recognized him, Helene dropped her fan out of sheer surprise and felt a sudden, uncomfortable eruption of butterflies in her stomach. 

“Very sorry,” he said offhandedly, picking up her fan and handing it to her with a cold, disinterested look. That was before he met her eyes. “Oh. It’s you, Princess.”

Helene fought hard to not flush. She was uncertain what she would have preferred more – that he had retained his cold, yet far more polite tone with her or that he had taken on a more familiar edge in her presence because of last time. “Good evening, Monsieur Dolokhov. You seem very surprised to see me.”

“Not surprised per se…You’re back in Petersburg.”

She gave him an odd look. “I have been all season. Perhaps I should be the one surprised to see you.”

“Do not mind him, Princess. Dolokhov has a way of liking to confuse proper ladies like yourself. He is far more comfortable with the gypsies.” A figure stepped out from behind Theodore and Helene smiled in recognition. 

“Ah Vasili Nikolaevitch, I did not think you would be here.” She offered Vasili Onegin her hand and gave Theodore a meaningful look, hoping this would prompt him to some more discretion. Dolokhov merely smirked at her. 

“There is far more to do here than the average party. The Livanovs have good food at least.” Onegin gave her a small bow as though in demonstration of his sincerity. 

“So what is this about the gypsies?” Helene asked brightly, opening her fan more as a habit of using it as a prop than because she was too warm. 

“Nothing to concern yourself with, Princess. Onegin simply has a very long tongue which he cannot find a good use for.” 

“Oh that is unkind!” Vasili laughed and gave Helene a knowing look. “Look out for this one, Princess. He enjoys biting.”

“Only idiots such as yourself,” Theodore shot back. “Excuse me, Princess.” 

He did not look one bit contrite, so Helene merely lifted her chin, even though a smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Do not worry about me, Vasili Nikolaevitch. Natalie Kerensky is the one who has a way of misunderstanding her suitors.” Onegin took the jibe in stride. Helene knew he had a romantic interest in Natalie, who held herself very liberally, and could not make up his mind if he wanted to propose to her or not. In the meantime, the girl was obviously waiting and getting tired of said wait. “She _is_ here tonight, however, if you would like to give her some friendly counsel,” Helene added. 

“Yes, of course, I think I shall leave you two. Theodore, are you riding home with me?”

“No I’m on my own tonight, thank you.”

“Big game last night then.”

A predatory and satisfied smirk settled into the corners of Theodore’s mouth. “Yes. Very.” 

Onegin laughed and walked away, still sniggering at his own thoughts. Theodore moved further away from the doorway and Helene followed him without giving it much thought. 

“So you play cards?” she asked, her indifference sounding very natural to her, even if inside she was burning with curiosity and a myriad of other feelings she refused to name to herself. 

“Yes. Does that bother you?” Dolokhov picked up two glasses of wine off the tray of a passing waiter and handed one to her. 

“No.” Helene drank the wine slowly, savoring the liquid and allowing its subtle sting to rest on her tongue. She felt like she was drowning in a wave of her own confusion of her feelings for the man in front of her. Seeing him had been much too pleasant. “All men play cards,” she added in a way to show that she did not find anything overly interesting in this activity. Although she somehow found the mental image of Theodore’s face half hidden behind a fan to cards to be frighteningly arousing. She wanted to see him play, to watch the concentration in his eyes and see the way he watched the other players. Even the way he watched other people in the room was laced with something, some sort of underlying discretion and the furtiveness of a lone wolf hunter. 

“I’ve known ladies to engage in this activity.”

“Not the way men do.”

“Oh certainly. Such is the difference of the sexes.” He threw a look at her over his shoulder before returning to watching the room at large. “Although, I could teach you to play like a man, if you would like.”

“I have no need for men’s things.”

Dolokhov laughed. Helene looked oddly at him as she did not see why her statement was so amusing. Frankly, she meant it. She was not one of those unfortunate girls who somehow managed to pine their life away, wishing they were something they were not in body. Helene liked her dresses and ribbons, dances and coquettish games. Being a man was far too crude and the social currency with which men bought their position was not quite that of a woman and Helene considered that she liked her own currency better. It was easier to obtain and although a greater commitment to maintain, the outcome satisfied her. 

“This is less about being a man, as you call it, as simply life. Strategy, Princess, is a brilliant thing.”

She looked over at him, then surveyed the drawing room with its various groups, mostly gendered, mostly separated by age. She imagined herself in an isolated corner with Dolokhov and all the raciest scenes from French romance novels which she had ever snuck into her room and read in the middle of the night – only to, as of late, shut them up half way without finishing the entire novel, and declaring them incorrigible – came flooding into her mind and creating an embarrassing flush on her cheeks and a tightness in her abdomen. Helene took out her fan and began to slowly fan herself, continuing to feign only the slightest elevated interest. “Only if you believe you can accomplish this by the time the dessert is served.”

Dolokhov grinned. “I doubt we will need all night.” He turned and led to her to an empty card table. 

Helene felt like there was a double entendre to both his words and his expression, but she did not wish to contemplate it in case there was something indecent in either. Not that she would mind, in theory, but then she would have to deal with this situation before it got out of hand and at the moment, she simply wanted to enjoy herself. And if that meant drowning just a little in a pair of icy blue eyes she would do just that. 

*

Helene found herself laughing shortly after she and Dolokhov began their isolation at the card table. Simply laughing and disregarding all the social plans she had construed in her mind for that night. She could hardly help it – the tricks that Dolokhov showed her were so silly and almost obvious that she doubted that he actually ever used them in a game, even considering that he did use tricks. They played a simple social game in which he promised to not employ any of his “dishonorable” moves and Helene played carelessly, not caring if she won or lost. 

“Are you really a sharper?” she asked finally, her curiosity getting the best of her. “I don’t mean to be rude, but are you?”

Dolokhov smirked. “Hardly, Princess. It would be far too much of a hassle. I do not mind risks, but I hate unnecessary issues. I simply know the game and that is enough.”

Helene smiled, almost earnestly. Knowing the game – they were alike in that, even if the games they chose to play were different. “So it is not the idea of cheating being dishonorable that stops you?”

“Goodness no. Who does that stop nowadays?” 

Helene began to say something, to continue their banter only to realize that perhaps he was joking. “Monsieur Dolokhov, that is quite irregular!” she laughed. 

Dolokhov winked at her and switched seats to sit beside her rather than across the table. Helene instantly felt the heat of his body and became acutely aware of her own. “Tell me, Princess, is rule breaking not exciting sometimes?”

Helene looked at him, suddenly unsure what the correct answer should be. She tried it this way and that in her mind, finally giving up on a direct answer and merely smiling, just a little warmly, just a bit invitingly, before looking away at the cards strewn across the card table. “I would not want to play for real with you, Monsieur Dolokhov.”

He laughed, but softer, more intimately this time. “I will tell you, Princess, that few people do. Unless they are drunk.” 

“You’re joking!”

“No! Look then, spirits relieve people of their inhibitions.” He stood up and took two more glasses from a passing waiter to replace their empty ones. 

Helene took her glass and looked over its rim at Dolokhov. “And…which inhibitions are you trying to rid _me_ of?” 

“Oh I think you have few of those as it is. Of the bad sort, I mean.”

“The bad sort?”

“Yes. The ones that don’t allow a person to live up to their full potential and box them in.”

“So being reserved is a bad thing?”

Theodore gave her an exasperated look. “Being afraid is a bad thing. Especially when you are afraid of yourself.” 

There was something strange in those words, Helene gathered, it wasn’t simply talk, the sort of empty social philosophizing that many others indulged in. He seemed to mean something behind those words, but Helene could not figure out what. “I am looking forward to tonight’s improvised ball,” she said as a way to break the sudden tension. “What about you?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On you, Princess.”

“On me?”

“Yes. Would you do me the favor of a cotillion or a mazurka?”

“Which one would you prefer?”

“The mazurka.”

She gave him a cheeky smile. “You may have the cotillion then.” 

Dolokhov merely smiled. “As you please.” He rose and swept the cards up into a neat stack with a single motion, gave her a slightly exaggerated bow and left. Helene watched him go with an indescribable feeling of frustration and anticipation. He wanted her, it seemed, but on his own term, never hers and she could not figure out if that annoyed her or made her want him more. 

*~*

Helene found her flirtation with Dolokhov to be quite pleasant. Neither of them ever spoke any words that might give away or even hint at the feelings growing between them. In fact Helene hardly stopped to consider them for herself. She found that dwelling on such thoughts put her at odds with what she believed she ought to be doing – which was consequently what her father felt she should be doing – yet there was no denying that the more time went by, the more attached to Dolokhov she became. Now, if he was not at a certain party or ball she was disappointed and far more bored than usual. 

A year went by in such a manner and Helene, now surrounded by many suitors of all sorts, had adapted herself to society to the extent where she had a much better sense of what she could or could not get away with. She realized that the difference between discretion and indiscretion was not so large, it truly only mattered if the talents of a person were sufficient to show a situation in a light favorable to themselves or not. 

Love was still a scary word, a word she did not wish to use or have anything to do with. She would never say to anyone that she _loved_ Dolokhov, but she had slowly begun to refer to him as Theodore in the privacy of her own mind.

Aloud, in front of anyone else, she did not dare be so informal. Even to Anatole. Especially with Anatole, since he knew her the best and would understand everything that this familiarity meant. The fact that he was best friends with Dolokhov only made the situation infinitely worse. Helene was constantly afraid of what her brother may be saying to Theodore and what sort of things they may be discussing in relation to her. She knew this also made Anatole a potential well of information but she did not dare ask him for fear of giving herself away. 

It was bad enough that Anatole was suspicious of her already. He often asked her what she thought of Theodore and always watched her far too closely. She tried to speak well of the man without revealing just how much she favored him over the rest. The better Helene got at manipulating the feelings of men, the more cautious she became in revealing her own affections for any one of them. With Dolokhov this was especially true. 

At the end of the summer during that first year of their friendship, Theodore came to their estate to visit on Anatole’s invitation. Helene had taken the chance to go horseback riding with him, sometimes disappearing into the Kuragin woods for two or three hours. She noticed her father watching her as well, but he did not know her quite as intuitively as Anatole knew her. She, Theodore and Anatole went swimming, played a variety of games and spent long hours in the evening talking of highly inconsequential things.

A stormy night found Helene and Dolokhov alone in the drawing room after the rest of the household had gone to bed. He was drinking brandy by the fireplace, staring off into the darkness outside one of the large windows the curtains of which had been left undrawn. 

“You are lurking,” she told him, smiling softly. Some of the edge had gone out of her voice as of late whenever she spoke to him. They still teased and she still found him impudent, but there was a clear and understood friendship between them as well. 

“Perhaps. I approve of your father’s taste in brandy.” 

She smiled. “Any wine for me?”

“It’s your house, I figured you would know.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yes.” Theodore smirked at her and turned back to watching the window. Helene went up to stand beside him and took the brandy glass from his hand without bothering to ask and took a long drink, then offered it back. “I hope you do not mind.”

“Anything for a friend,” Theodore told her, smirking in amusement. He was easily amused by everything, she had figured out a long time ago. Mainly because Dolokhov found a way to be cynical about most things. His family and a couple of his friendships seemed to be the only things he actually took seriously. 

Helene turned just in time to see a flash of lighting zig-zag across the horizon, lighting up the sky above the woods. In the flash of lightening the trees seemed to be a single dark mass, gloomy and ominous in the distance. Helene made a startled gesture and found herself transfixed, waiting for the next flash. “Oh…” she breathed finally. “So that’s what you’re watching.”

“A storm is coming,” Theodore said calmly, “Anatole hates them. I always found them somewhat fascinating. What say you, Princess?”

“I…don’t know. I’ve never considered it, I suppose…” Helene thought about it, allowing their conversation to fall into a comfortable silence. Another flash of lightening glared in the distance and, very faintly, an echo of thunder could be heard. “I think everyone wishes, deep inside, that they could be a storm,” she said finally. “The power in that is extraordinary. Everyone wants that.” She looked up at him and found, unexpectedly, that Theodore was watching her not with his usual amusement but with a reserved surprise. 

“Even those who have power already?” he quarried, trying to sound disinterested but she could tell he was faking. She could tell because that was the exact same tone in which she feigned disinterest in something or someone. 

“No one ever has as much power as they want,” she told him. “No one can have everything that they want, even though they wish they could. What is to stop the lightening from striking the ground?”

“A lightning rod,” Theodore said after a beat. Helene looked around to check his expression, looking for the familiar smirk, but it was not there, instead he was watching her intensely. 

Helene turned away from those eyes which seemed to see straight through her. She watched as the storm neared, the lightening breaking the darkness of the night more and more frequently. The thunder was louder now and it resounded in her ears. Suddenly their comfortable silence was laced with an electric spark, like a pregnant storm cloud which could break any moment. Helene felt her heartbeat rise and nothing she did or thought could change the sudden shivers that broke over her body. Finally, unable to stand it, she turned to him and said flatly, “Please don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like _that_.” She waited for the teasing rebuke, for the smirk, but it never came and Helene suddenly wondered what they were doing there, alone in the dark drawing room, late in the evening. She wondered what her father or mother or even Hippolyte would think if they saw her. She knew what Anatole would think and it made a metal ring of dread curl around her insides. She could not allow herself this blunder. 

Theodore finally looked away and drained his glass, setting it aside on the mantel. “It is late, Princess. Goodnight.” 

He left and Helene felt the emptiness of the room without him. Sooner or later, she realized, she would need to speak to Anatole of this, because if she did not tell _someone_ she felt she might explode. 

But then Dolokhov left at the end of August for his regiment stationed somewhere in the countryside and Helene did not see him for the next several months. Their picnics, horse rides, card games and readings of _Dangerous Liaisons_ , while not forgotten, were set out of mind for the time being. There was plenty to entertain herself with in Petersburg during the season and Helene, slowly, began to calm. It was all a summer dream, she assured herself. It did not mean anything. Yet, from time to time, she did wish that she could write to him. 

*~*

At the end of March, Anatole came bursting into Helene’s room without so much as a knock, waving around a piece of folded up paper. “He’s back! Theodore’s back!”

Helene looked up from where she had been sitting and regarded her brother with a reproachful look. “Toto, I’ve asked you to knock! For god’s sake, I could have been undressed.”

“I’ve see you undressed before,” Anatole said, rolling his eyes. He held up a hand to stay her protests. “Alright, I’ll knock, I promise. But did you hear me? Theodore is back in Petersburg!” 

Helene had heard and her heart had jumped just a fraction at the news. She had missed him – that was undeniable. Anatole had been keeping a correspondence with Theodore for the last few months of his absence and had volunteered news of his friend to all in the household, regardless of if they were interested or not. Helene had been grateful then for her brother’s indiscriminate need to share information he found important or entertaining. 

“When did he return?” she asked, rising from the sofa and coming over to look at the letter Anatole was unfolding. 

“Just a few days ago. He says he is put up at the Brevnikovs but he doesn’t want to intrude on them, and Constantine is getting married as it is. So he is looking for a new place. You know, I think I will ask him to stay with me, now that I have rooms of my own. Then you can come visit without Papa always watching us. Would that not be nice?”

Helene nodded. It would be wonderful, actually. Her father watched her far less when Theodore was not around. His instincts were splendid when it came to looking out for his children’s associations. “It would be nice. I have missed him some.”

Anatole gave her a strange look but then grinned in his usual good-natured way. “Good, then we are in agreement on this.” He looked back down at the letter in his hands. “He’s also asking if we will be at the Nisvitski ball. Were you thinking of going?”

“Yes, of course. You know I enjoy balls.” 

Anatole grinned happily. “Wonderful! Then I will write back immediately and tell him. Can you imagine how excited I am! I haven’t seen him in months!”

 _Neither have I,_ Helene thought, but did not dare voice the thought. She was uncomfortable with her own excitement. She knew the road she was stepping onto was a dangerous one, one that led to nothing but heartache, but she could not help herself anymore. The mere thought of seeing Theodore, of hearing his voice again, was putting her into an affected state and her entire body prickled with the anticipation. Anatole was glowing, practically bouncing and therefore did not notice her flushed state. Helene was relieved. “Yes, Toto, I can imagine,” she said, smiling fondly at him.

“I’ll go now and write to him!” Anatole announced, almost triumphantly and practically skipped from the room. Helene held her breath for a moment, waiting for the door to shut before beginning to pace around the room restlessly. She needed a new dress for this occasion. 

*~*

Helene fidgeted slightly with her fan in the carriage as they drove up to the Nisvitskis’ house. Anatole, who had been allowed to come along provided he was on his best behavior, sat beside her, slightly restless and turning his head from side to side like a large bird, almost as though he was trying to soak in the atmosphere of the event. Helene would usually tease him, but her thoughts were otherwise preoccupied at the moment. She was thinking of how it would feel when Theodore kissed her hand in greeting and swept her away in a waltz. This was not a large ball, not like the one at which they had met, but the Nisvitski’s did have a gorgeous ballroom and Helene was envisioning all sorts of dancing and banter

She clutched at her fan – both a tool and a friend in this venture – as she was helped out of the carriage. They proceeded down the hall, Anatole chattering in a half-whisper and Helene not listening to him. The large doors opened before them and she instantly raked her eyes across the crowd, picking out familiar faces and searching for a particular one. 

Anatole saw Dolokhov first and took off with a happy gate which brought a frown to their father’s face. “Anatole is too young, we should not have brought him.”

“He is sixteen, _mon cher_. Let the boy be,” Aline said mildly, touching her husband’s arm in an attempt to soothe him. 

“Mama, Anatole has the maturity of a ten year old,” Hippolyte announced, puffing out his chest as he had a manner of doing whenever he spoke on a topic where he thought he had some sort of knowledgeable authority. 

All of this went by Helene. Her eyes were focused on Dolokhov, who stood in the company of a couple of friends and a young woman. The lady had her back to Helene at first and the princess could not make out her face. Theodore was smiling at her. It was one of his friendlier smiles, just a little indulgent but not contemptuous or condescending. Helene debated with herself if she should go up to them or not but decided to stay where she was. 

Just as she was playing a guessing game with herself as to who Theodore’s lady friend was, Anatole approached the group, said something to them and they all looked over in her direction. Helene’s mind suddenly froze. 

The dark haired girl was Maria Rokotov. Over the past couple of years she had developed into a real woman. The girl Helene had seen at the ball had been lovely, but still a girl. Maria had seemingly blossomed over the years – now everything about her figure was mature and supple, ready for the taking. She stood just a little too close to Theodore and smiled just a little too fondly at him. Before Anatole had called their attention to Helene, Maria had touched Theodore’s arm several times while saying something. Why the Rokotov girl – dowerless as she was – would try to win the favor of a low ranking officer of little means instead of a wealthy suitor, Helene could not know, but she was certain that Maria was far too close to Theodore and he was _allowing_ this closeness. 

Their eyes met across the floor.

And Dolokhov half-smirked, half-smiled at her, just as though they had only parted a few days ago instead of several months. He excused himself from the group and crossed the floor to Helene. He took her hand and kissed it. “Princess.” 

She curtsied. “It has been far too long Lieutenant Dolokhov.” She gave him a fond smile, unable to keep all the coquetry out of it; something about seeing Maria with him had made Helene’s possessive instincts flare up. She hoped she had guessed his new rank correctly. 

Apparently she had, for Theodore smiled. “Are you dancing?” he asked, as a waltz began to play. 

Helene put her hand in his as a sign of assent. “If you insist.” It was nothing like the first time, but Helene thought it may have been even better. All the foolishness of a first ever true waltz had dissipated, all the nervousness of girlhood had been swiped away and Dolokhov was no longer a stranger to her. They could share secrets with only a glance – like those that they thought the entire world far too foolish and enshrined in hypocritical snobbery. And as they danced, Helene suddenly realized that she did not care who was watching them. They were, for all she knew, complete alone, with the candles shining around them and the music lolling her into a completely different world where she need not hide, need not smile when she wished to cry, need not suppress whatever feelings she had for this young officer who understood her so well, who loved her baby brother like his own family, and who felt so close to her, like she had never felt for anyone else. 

The waltzes ended and Helene found herself drinking wine as though it were water, trying to alleviate some of the thirst from the dancing. Theodore drank with her, toasting to her beauty in a tone which Helene could not quite describe – he seemed almost serious, but not nearly serious enough – then put his glass aside and gave her a small bow. “You must excuse me, Princess.”

Helene looked at him, trying to act coy but feeling bewildered that he was leaving her after a single round. “Are you off to the army again, Lieutenant?”

Theodore shook his head and said mildly, offhandedly, “No, I promised some dances to a lady. I do ask you to not disappear without saying goodbye.” He gave her a playful salute before walking to the opposite side of the room and pulling a petite brunette out of a cluster of girls for the Mazurka. 

_Maria._ Helene suddenly felt outraged. She had never felt quite so slighted in her life. That Theodore would put up with that _simpering, self-assured, pathetic…_ Yet they were a good match, a better, much more likely match than she and Theodore. 

And this thought hurt more than Helene had expected it to. Dazedly, she gave her hand to the first man who asked her to dance and sank back into her usual mask of tranquil disinterest. She smiled the same at everyone she spoke with, said the same words as she always did and drank her wine with dainty sips as she attempted to watch the dancing without actually watching it. These routines, these learned habits and interactions, were the only shields she had against the tumultuous feelings that were devouring her from within. _Her_ Theodore with _that_ girl. 

As soon as the dancing was done, Helene picked up her fan and excused herself from her last partner. She wove through the crowd of talking and laughing guests, into the empty hallway and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. Her chest rose and fell and she closed her eyes against her own thoughts but that only made things worse, for all she could see then was Maria and Theodore, spinning around and around in a dance, Maria’s crimson dress fanning out and her handsome face flushed with excitement as Theodore said something against her ear. Helene could not get rid of the image no matter how much she tried. Her composure was slipping and she could swear that if she saw him now—

“Princess, are you alright?”

She opened her eyes but did not dare look over at the speaker. She did not want him to know her agitation. “Yes, Lieutenant, I am quite well. The dancing has simply worn me out.” Her voice frayed some at the end and she snapped her fan open. Slowly, she began to fan herself, hiding the bottom half of her face behind the lace barrier. 

“You’re unhappy with me.” It was not a question. 

“Why should I be unhappy with you?”

Dolokhov came to stand beside her, invading her space, watching her with such intensity as though he wanted to set her on fire or undress her merely with his eyes. “I asked you to not disappear and you did. And now you are upset. Helene—“

“Don’t.” She turned sharply to him and looked straight into his face. Doing so was not nearly as hard as she imagined it would be. “What is it that you want of me, Monsieur Dolokhov? You dance with me, befriend me, act in a way that seems to imply…and yet you never come to the house, you never court me as a man of honor would. Do you mean to compromise me?”

Theodore looked taken aback but only for a moment. Then some unreadable expression came over his face and Helene hurried to compose her own features, although she could not be sure that she was managing. “Listen to yourself, Princess. Do you honestly expect me to make a fool of myself by courting you? By asking for your hand only so that your father many have the pleasure of kicking me out of your house?”

“So you would rather make a fool of me?”

“I have never given you cause.”

“You have given me every cause!” Helene could feel her self control slipping, her voice rose into high, emotional notes which she almost never allowed herself with anyone aside with, perhaps, her brothers. 

“So…are you saying that you…are in love with me?”

She stared at him for a moment, tried to slap him, but he caught her hand and held it tightly in his. 

“You, Monsieur Dolokhov, are a bastard—“

“Helene—“

“A cad—“

“Princess—“ 

“And I do not want anything more to do with—“

He kissed her. She did not know how it happened, but suddenly his lips were on hers and her whole body had gone limp. There were fireworks exploding somewhere deep inside her chest and Helene felt like she might faint from the utter intensity of the moment, from her own racing heart and the sudden lack of air. She felt as if her body was on fire and every inch of her being longed to press against him and drown in his warmth. 

Then, she realized that she was kissing a strange man in the middle of a hallway where anyone could see them. She remembered that just minutes before he had been dancing with that impudent Rokotov girl, and suddenly the world came sharply back into focus. Helene stepped sharply away from him and this time, when she slapped him, her palm connected firmly with his cheek, the ringing of skin hitting skin echoed in the empty hall. 

Helene ran. She found Hippolyte and told him she was ill and begged him to take her home. He blustered and fussed but got them a cabbie and drove home with her. Helene sat straight-backed in the carriage, not seeing anything around her, not hearing Hippolyte’s awkward attempts to see how she was feeling. She only knew that the line she and Theodore had crossed that night could not be uncrossed and everything she ever did from now on would be defined by that moment. 

*~*

“You’re not being fair to him,” Anatole reflected, leaning against the doorframe and watching as Helene took the hairclips out of her hair. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said flatly. 

“Yes, you do. It’s been a week. He misses you.”

Helene let an exasperated sigh escape her. “I don’t know what he wants from me.”

Anatole snorted ungracefully and came into the room, kicking the door shut as he went. “The same thing you want from him. What do you expect, Helene? That he will simply show up here? That he will ask for your hand just so that Papa—“

“I know what Papa will do,” she snapped irritably at him. “Theodore said the same thing. The two of you have talked about it.”

“Nothing bad… Helene…” Anatole crossed the remainder of the room between them in two large springing steps and took her arm, forcing her to turn and face him. “Listen to me. He told me that he…that you are the only woman he has ever felt strongly about. What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid.” She was terrified – of her feelings, of getting hurt, of making the wrong step. 

“Jealous? Of who? Maria Rokotov? Theodore does not care for her!” Helene had not told him about Maria. She wondered if Theodore had told Anatole about their conversation in the hallway and suddenly discovered that she could not blame him if he did. After all, she told her brother secrets, even those that were not hers to tell, so why should Dolokhov not trust him just as implicitly?

“It does not matter,” she murmured resignedly. “I could never marry him.”

Anatole cocked his head to the side. “Don’t take this offensively, Helene, but I never thought you to be of quite such…highly moral ideals.”

“If it were _anyone_ else I would care little. But this will end badly, Anatole. With him it will.”

Anatole pulled her into an embrace. He was significantly taller than her now and she rested her head on his shoulder tiredly. 

“How long have you known?”

“About your feelings or his?”

“Mine.”

Anatole gave a slight shrug. “I wasn’t sure until the ball, but I’ve suspect for a while. You treat him differently than everyone else. It doesn’t _look_ like it to someone who doesn’t know you…but I know you.”

“Is it obvious?”

“To society? No. To Theodore? He goes back and forth on it.”

“To Papa.”

Anatole paused cautiously. “He might suspect.” 

Helene sighed, keeping her head on her brother’s shoulder for comfort. “Only more reason to stay away.”

“If that’s what makes you happy,” Anatole agreed. “But I don’t think staying away from each other is making either of you happy.”

*~*

“I would like to apologize. I behaved unduly last time we spoke.” Helene refrained from fidgeting with a great amount of effort. Late April was blossoming and blooming around them, the benches in the city park surrounded by early flowers and the first butterflies. 

Dolokhov sat beside her at a respectable distance but as she spoke, he reached out and touched her hand, slipping something into it. A note, she realized quickly, tucking it away into her lace glove for the moment. “If I offended you, Princess, that was not my intention. I was thinking that we had…an understanding.”

“We do.” She smiled just as the sun came out from behind a row of puffy, white summery clouds, and he returned it, a happy soft sort of smile, without its usual cynical edge. 

“Will I see you soon?” Theodore glanced down to where she had tucked away his note.

She met his eyes easily this time. “I will write to you.”

In an hour, when Helene returned to the safety of her room, she unfolded the note and read the proposed place and time, then sat down at her writing desk and penned a single word: _yes_.

And while she denied him her bed that night and many of the nights to follow, she did allow him to kiss her lips and her naked shoulders, explored his military-toned torso with her hands, running her long, slender fingers over taunt muscle and old scars, and knew, for certain now, that she loved him, even if she would never speak the words aloud. 

*~*

Helene could kill Anatole for his stupidity. _Where_ in God’s name did he end up getting a bear to begin with? In the years that she had met Theodore and since Anatole had gained his relative independence Helene had known them to do a variety of outrageous things and get into all sorts of trouble, but this was beyond all understanding. 

Not that she did not think that their prank was funny. To tie a policeman to a bear back to back and to send them floating off in the Moika! She had gotten a good laugh out of it when Anatole had first told her. The policeman must have cut a fine figure. 

But this was not funny. 

In the early July morning Anatole looked utterly devastated as he came out of their father’s study and nearly collapsed onto the sofa beside Helene. Their mother and Hippolyte looked at him expectantly. “I have not felt so thoroughly scolded since I was ten!” 

“Well, it does serve you right with all the trouble you’ve caused,” Hippolyte mused. “At least be thankful you weren’t degraded to the ranks.”

If it were possible, Anatole’s face fell more. “At least. But I’ll be missing the campaign!” 

“I think that is for the best, darling,” their mother offered mildly. Helene nodded. She did not want her baby brother out there. She already knew he was eager and brave, but she preferred him alive. 

Anatole gave their mother a scathing look. “Really, Mama, and what am I to do out in the country? Even if I were able to remain here – Serge is away, Pierre has been ordered to leave the city, Theodore has been _degraded to the ranks_ , for God’s sake! And all my other friends will be leaving for war shortly… It’s utterly dull.”

Anatole was far too preoccupied with his own worries to notice the slight tremble of Helene’s hand which gave her away for a moment, before she managed to collect herself again. Theodore was disgraced and would be going to the war as a _soldier._ And for what? A prank? It seemed so unnecessary and as she considered the idea, tried to envision it, the spidery tentacles of fear began to wind around her, making it hard to breath. 

She must have had less control than she thought, for Aline noticed her daughter’s agitated state. “Are you not well, Helene? You are a bit pale. Or has your brother upset you so?”

“It’s merely a headache, Mama,” Helene lilted, smiling the same calm smile she always used at social functions. “And I was worried about Anatole, but thankfully that has all turned out much better than we thought. I think I will lie down until tea.” She rose, gave her family a calm, collected look and, with a deliberately measured pace left the room. 

It took Anatole only a minute to follow. He caught her at the top of the stairs and pulled her into his own room, closing the door behind them. “Are you alright?”

“Of course I’m alright…I am very concerned, however,” she admitted. There was no use hiding her feelings from Anatole now. What was the use, if he already knew exactly how she felt. She and Theodore, while remaining as discreet as possible, had indulged their desires for over three years now. They spent long periods of time apart when Theodore was out in the provinces with the army or in Moscow with his family, but they wrote to each other and when they reunited it was always in a flurry of passionate embraces and kisses. 

She had not allowed him to bed her. Not yet. But now something was gnawing at Helene deep inside, fear forcing on her thoughts about whether she would ever get the chance now. “Will he…get a chance to say goodbye?”

Anatole shook his head. “He had direct orders to report to headquarters and then leave with the next wave. They must have left this morning.” Anatole reached into the inner pocket of his tailcoat and brought out a folded up note. “He told me to give you this.”

Helene took the note and unfolded it. Her hands were surprisingly steady as she did. She skimmed the lines, then re-read them again, more carefully this time, smiling vaguely at things such as: _I’m sorry we did not have the chance to say goodbye, but perhaps it is for the better. A long, tearful goodbye would only make fools of us both._ He was right, as he usually was, but Helene still longed to see him, to touch him one last time before he left, walked away into the unknown of the smoky horizon where she could not possibly reach him. She looked up at Anatole and whispered, feeling terror at the intensity of her own feelings, “I love him.” 

Anatole smiled sadly. “It’s hard not to.”

*~*

Helene knew her fate was decided when Anatole’s friend Pierre suddenly became Count Bezukhov. She knew before her father had the chance to say a word to her. She knew by the way her father smiled when he looked at her and then at Pierre, she could see the wheels turning in his head. Sometimes, she wondered if her father even knew that he was making plans. Vasili Kuragin was so adapt at intrigue that it came naturally to him and he began to subconsciously make plans for the future before his conscious mind caught up and began to implement these plans. 

Helene would be lying to herself if she thought that she had not expect better. She knew her suitor would be rich, probably older than her by several years, average in looks but educated and well established in society, respected in all the proper circles. She could have even imagined a partnership with her husband, wherein they would together conquer in the social sphere. He would be politically prominent and she would host one of the best, most refined salons in Petersburg. In the summer, they would go to one of his sprawling estates and they would host balls and outdoor galas. With his prominent capital, there would always be a way to alleviate boredom and to establish oneself. 

Overall, Helene saw marriage as her father did – as a business venture. In a lot of ways, it saved her much grief. Anatole, who refused to subscribe to this view, was already having altercations with their father and Helene could only expect that these would grow more furious and frequent as Anatole got older and as it became more and more obvious that he had to marry. Helene found it easier to adapt to the situation. Perhaps this had something to do with the fact that she was a woman and therefore forced to adapt, yet she spent little time on these thoughts. Too much philosophizing rarely did anyone any good. Even during her entire affair with Dolokhov, she not once imagined how it might be if she were to marry him. She simply knew such an outcome was impossible and that they would have to deal with the fallout when it came. 

But she _had_ hoped for better than Pierre.

In some ways he was the ideal husband. Soft spoken and unobtrusive, he mostly let her do as she pleased and never asked too many questions. He was socially awkward but so rich that his capital made up for most of the _faux pas_ that he was responsible for. He was almost charming, in a very twisted sort of way. As an accessory, Pierre was ideal, but as a husband, Helene was disappointed. 

There would be no partnership with Pierre, no mutual understanding. He was far more likely than most men to miss any indiscretion on her part, probably even less prone to jealousy, yet if he ever did find out, Pierre was far more likely to raise hell and not listen to reason. There was a philosophizing, moralistic streak in Pierre which could cause problems for both of them and Helene was uncertain if this meant that he would try to force her to have children. Children were not something Helene was ready for and did not see herself ever being ready for. Certainly not with Pierre. 

Unattractive, younger than her, awkward in manner, uninteresting to her, and with understandings of life perfectly polar-opposite to hers, Pierre and her marriage to him were a disaster waiting to happen. 

Yet, he was a brilliant match and Helene saw that and knew her father saw that. So she did what was expected of her and very soon, Pierre was standing in front of her on the night of her name day and saying “ _Je t’aime_.” Neither by his tone nor by his expression could she be certain how deeply he meant those words or if he meant them at all, but it was enough, for it insured her engagement and the kiss that followed, which she was forced to initiate, insured it even further. 

*~*

Helene was married in mid-December. The night before her wedding she sat in her room, picturing the gorgeous wedding dress and long veil she would wear the next day and how everything would be bright and festive with the church bells ringing. Her father had returned with Anatole for the occasion. Anatole was supposed to be in the army in the province but had insisted on coming back for her wedding. When she first told him he looked disappointed but not surprised. He avoided telling her what exactly he had been thinking about when she explained to him why Pierre was such a good match as he sat on her bed, idly swinging his legs with a thoughtful, almost sad look on his face, but she wondered if Theodore had crossed his mind like he had crossed hers. She had decided, however, that her beau would simply have to accept the circumstances. She hoped that she had not misjudged him and that he would, in fact, understand. Losing him would be far too painful, far more than she wanted to admit to herself. 

Snow had begun to fall outside and Helene paced to the window, then back to her desk. She unlocked an inner drawer where she kept her personal correspondence and drew out a letter. Addressed to Anatole, the envelope contained two letters, one for him and one for her. Theodore had taken a precaution she appreciated. 

She sat on the windowsill, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders and began to read. There was little light in that corner of the room but she had read the letter so many times that the words came to her almost from memory. 

_I’m sorry I did not write earlier…I’ve been wounded, but lightly, there’s hardly need to worry…I do hope, Princess, that I will find warmth in your friendship upon my return, for the nights here are growing cold…_

__Helene felt the odd prickle of tears behind her eyes, so very strange and foreign. She felt like she had not cried in years. Quickly, she blinked away the feeling and ran a hand over the letter. The paper was crinkled at the corners and the ink was smudged in places, obviously put to paper on the go. She carefully folded up the letter and tucked it away into the small hiding place she had for it and those like it, although there were few quite so secret and so dear.

A soft knock on the door made her quickly lock up the desk and look up, pretending like she had merely been preparing to go to bed. “Yes?”

She let out a soft sigh of relief on seeing Anatole. He slipped almost silently into her room and shut the door closed. “How are you doing?”

She raised her eyebrows at him slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly that.” 

Helene shrugged her shoulders slightly and leaned one hand on the back of an armchair. “Alright. I hope tomorrow goes well.” She bit her lip slightly. “You need to come and visit me often once I move to Pierre’s.”

Anatole nodded. He came up behind her and put his arms around her. Helene leaned back against his chest and closed her eyes. “I do wish father had picked someone more tolerable for me.”

“You could have said no.”

Helene laughed bitterly. “Could I have? I don’t think so.”

“I do it all the time.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” They were silent for some time.

“I know Pierre. He’s a good fellow. He’ll be good to you. And if he’s not…”

“You won’t do anything about it. I won’t have you getting into a fight with that oaf. It’s not worth it.”

Anatole shrugged. “He won’t hurt you.”

“That’s not my fear.” She chewed lightly on her lip, running her teeth over the tender tissue. “Has there been a letter?”

Anatole tensed just slightly. “No.” 

The news of the army’s defeat at Austerlitz had just begun to reach the two capitals and Helene sometimes felt like she was holding her breath, waiting for news. She did not want to care so much, but she did and sometimes she was glad that Anatole knew all about her feelings, her affair. He also cared and they were together in this once more, as they were in so many other things – together and alone. 

“He’ll be alright,” Anatole tried, although it was uncertain if he was trying to convince her or himself. 

“He’ll be alright,” she echoed, watching the snowfall outside. 

*~*

On a night in late February of 1806, nearly two and a half months after her wedding, Helene sat in her old room, watching the flickering candle on her writing desk. This was the only light in the room and it cast long, ghastly shadows on the walls. Outside, the snow was falling softly. The storm, which had raged the night before had settled over the course of the day and now the sky was clear. In front of her lay Theodore’s last letter, received almost two months ago, before the Austerlitz defeat, the one she had read the night before her wedding. She had not heard anything from his since and the silence was worrying her, perhaps without cause, yet Anatole was jumpy as well even though he tried his hardest not to show it and his anxiety translated over to her and made her restless. New columns of trooped had marched back into the city that afternoon and Helene asked Anatole to find out if Theodore may be among them as she did not dare ask unsolicited questions herself. Yet, she could not stay in her husband’s house that night, even when it was completely empty. Its strangeness and foreign atmosphere depressed her so she returned to her father’s house, hoping that its familiarity would soothe her nerves. 

A soft knock on the door made Helene look up. She was not expecting Pierre until the next night at the earliest and even if he was back already, Helene doubted that he would go looking for her in the middle of the night. She folded up the letter and tucked it away into her writing box under some other insignificant correspondence. 

“Come in,” she called softly.

Anatole slipped into her room and said without preamble in a hushed voice, “Come, I have something I need to show you.”

“Now?”

“Yes, right now. Take your coat.”

There was urgency in his voice and she obeyed it more than the words themselves. Helene stood and, without calling for her made, took her new fur coat and followed her brother outside. 

Anatole led her through the dark hallways by the hand and down the servants’ stairs. Helene held her furs in her free hand so her gown rustled noisily as they walked but Anatole paid it no mind. They made it down to the back porch and Helene stopped to put on her coat. “Will you explain to me?” she demanded again. It was cold outside. The snow had stopped falling and the sky was clear, allowing the moon to bathe the snow in a ghostly silver light. The garden looked like some sort of ancient magical kingdom. She shivered and pressed herself to Anatole’s side. 

“You asked me to find out if Theodore was back from the front.” 

She nodded slowly, her heartbeat increasing frantically as realization began to come over her. 

“I did one better.” He whistled, low and long and pulled away from Helene and slipped back into the house. 

“Anatole—?” He was gone and she turned back just in time to see the bushes part. “Oh.”

She had not seen him in many long months and it had begun to seem to her like he had been nothing but a wild, girlish dream. So much had changed. Yet there he was, Theodore Dolokhov, standing at the bottom step of her porch in a new officer uniform, his greatcoat unbuttoned even in the biting cold. “Well, I didn’t die, I suppose that’s good,” he said nonchalantly as though picking up a conversation they had left off just a minute before. 

She couldn’t take it anymore. Helene flew down the steps, almost tripping over her skirts and flung herself into his arms, kissing him passionately, wildly. “Oh God, Teddy,” she breathed hoarsely when they pulled apart. He pressed her close to him with one hand and outlined her face with the other. He looked older than before the campaign; there were deeper, premature lines around his eyes and mouth but they were just barely there. She only saw them because she was looking for them, looking for any changes. He looked tired but otherwise just as he had been before leaving. 

“I gather that means you missed me.”

“Be quiet.” She kissed him again and again, her body responding to his every touch the way it never responded to anything her husband did. In fact, the more Pierre tried the more she wanted him to leave her alone. 

“Wait.” He took her arm and led her into a grove of evergreens which could shelter them from the view of the house. The drifts of snow in the grove were thick and she worried at first that she would soak her shoes, but truly Helene hardly cared. She had not even realized how much she had missed him, how much she had worried. So many things had happened in her life in the past few months that there had been little time for worry. Now, she was nearly drowning in the relief. The snow around them sparkled like in a fairytale book and Helene feared that at any moment she could wake up next to her insipid husband and realize that she had simply been dreaming again.

“You did not write,” she said, an accusing note slipping into her tone.

“I was wounded in the arm. I did not dare dictate the letter and I’m afraid my handwriting is unclear enough, even with the right hand.” 

“…Wounded…” she mouthed the word, tracing her fingers over his shoulder. He pulled her closer and she put her arms around his neck. “But now you are alright?”

“Yes.” He was watching her intensely but she somehow missed it, thought that he was merely drinking her in the way she was with him. They had only been apart a few months but it had felt like forever. Then, Theodore unwound her hands from around his neck and looked at them. Realizing what he was doing, that he must know, Helene tried to take her hands back but he held them firm. She wore no gloves so, giving in, she looked as well, as though hoping that his appearance had somehow made the ring disappear. But alas it was still there, glinting in the eerie bluish light of the moon and reflecting snow. “So it’s true,” he stated flatly.

“Yes.”

“Bezukhov? Is that true too?” 

She looked up into his face but could not read his expression clearly in the dark. “Yes.” 

Helene thought she saw a glimmer of furious hurt in his eyes for a moment, but then it was gone and she had probably imagined it all along. Yet she still harbored a fear that he would drop her hands and leave. Leave her alone in the cold, unfeeling snow to waste away in a life which she simultaneously could not imagine herself without and did not want. 

Instead, he lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them. She wished she could cry. 

“Well then,” Theodore said finally. “Would you like my congratulations or my condolences?” He smirked at her and she felt the doubt dissipate. If he was mocking her, he wasn’t leaving. 

“He is rich,” she informed him, pursing her lips, “and a count. It’s a very good match.”

“I’m certain, dear Countess.”

It felt like a slap. “Don’t call me that,” she hissed at him. 

“Get used to it,” he told her, just a little sadly. “It’s who you are now.”

*~*

Of course Theodore Dolokhov would have the audacity to get Pierre to put him up. He hardly even needed to do anything – a couple of dropped words here and there that he was looking for a place to stay while in Petersburg, another phrase about the rigors of the campaign, and Helene’s oaf of a husband completely melted. He invited Theodore to stay and even loaned him some money which Dolokhov had every intention to repay after his first couple or so large card games. In the mean time, he obviously had every intention of visiting Helene’s rooms far too often. 

Pierre seemed to have lost most of his interest in her body by this point. Helene was grateful, yet she feared that his appetite might come back and he would catch them in a compromising position, or even worse, an obvious one. Yet resisting temptation would be incredibly difficult. Helene did not know who she was more displeased with – Theodore for tempting her or Pierre for being the useless oaf that he was.

She announced her displeasure to both. Pierre only shrugged and muttered something about “old drinking mates” and Theodore had laughed and told her cheekily, “if you like, we can view this as a practice in self restraint.” Helene really did not know if she wanted to slap him or kiss him then. 

She followed Pierre to Moscow in hopes to escape the temptation but Theodore went with them and somewhere along the way, Helene’s self-restraint collapsed. 

*~*

The first night they were in Moscow, Theodore and Pierre went out to the English club. Helene, resolving to go to bed early and not expecting anyone, undressed and, dismissing her made, sat watching her own reflection in the mirror as she took out her clips. This activity she liked to perform unassisted. There was something calming about feeling strands of her hair come loose, one after another, lightening the tension in her scalp. She was almost finished when the slight creak of the door hinges made her look up sharply. 

There he was, standing in the doorway to her bedroom as though he belonged there. How funny, really, she thought, that her own husband did not look so natural there as her beau did. Helene took a deep breath and slowly relaxed her hand, which had tightened on a hairclip when she’d heard the door open behind her. She looked straight ahead and met his eyes in the mirror with as much calm as she could muster. This effort took up all her concentration and she could not move or speak, merely looked at his reflection, drinking it in greedily as her pulse quickened. 

“You seem surprised to see me?” he half-asked, half-stated, tilting his head to the side and allowing the corners of his mouth to curve into a teasing smirk. 

“I wasn’t excepting you. You cannot just barge in here. Where is my husband? I thought you were both at the club.”

“Pierre met some old friends at the club. They seemed quite interested in their political discussion, I did not wish to interrupt him.” His smirk faded and something darkened in his face, the lines around his mouth and eyes deepening as he frowned just slightly. 

Helene stayed silent and continued to take the pins out of her hair. Her light, soft curls fell onto her white, full shoulders, the ends of the front strands brushing the cleavage line of her nightgown. She could feel his eyes on her, roaming over her body, from her shoulders and hair to her waist and hips. She tried to ignore him, knowing that, although it was useless to fight, the thing would be so much sweeter if she waited and allowed the tension between them to build. “I’m married now,” she told him in a tone that was too flat to be cautioning. 

“I thought we already establisheded that,” he informs her dryly. He spoke of it as he always did in the days after his return, as though he was joking but Helene could hear a modicum of hurt behind the façade: _While I risked my life on the battlefield as a common soldier you go and get married._ It did not matter that they could have never married – she for economic reasons, he out of pride. 

“My husband could come back any moment.”

“Trust me, he won’t.”

She stood and turned to face him, leaning back slightly against the vanity table, her hands gripping its cool, rounded edge. 

He took one roaming look at her and crossed the room in three long strides. His hands landed on her arms and squeezed a little too tightly. “Damn your husband, Helene.” He kissed her then and she allowed her eyes to fall closed, breathing in his familiar scent and opening her mouth to allow him to rediscover her lips and her tongue. His hands slid up her arms and onto her shoulders. From there, one slid up her neck and into her thick hair and the other made its way down her back. 

Helene withdrew, breathing hard, and tried to take a step away from him but the vanity behind her had her trapped. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” she whispers against his lips. “While we were children, before you went away, before I was married, it was a fancy, but now…” 

“We were never children, not then, no more than now.” He drew away from her suddenly, holding her at arms length and looking into her eyes. “Do you love him?”

 _He must be joking,_ Helene thought, feeling as though she should be insulted. “Of course not!” she hissed. 

“Then let things be, Princess. Let them be or tell me otherwise. But I would make love to you.”

She watched his face, felt her heart speed up to an incredible pace, adrenaline and desire mixing deep in her core until she could do nothing more than nod. “ _Oui._ ” She did not know why she said it in French, she spoke more Russian with him than with anyone, but it came out in a breathy, half-whisper of surrender. 

Theodore lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed without another word. Helene melted against him, savoring his warmth and his strong arms around her, the way his hot mouth felt against the tender spot on her neck. 

She struggled to undo the buttons on his uniform jacket and he helped her, throwing off the offending garment with a look of utter impatience. Helene felt her throat closing up as her breathing faltered. The dim room was lit by only a couple of candles set on the windowsill and soon she could only make out shadows and bright spots of light. And his eyes. Bright blue, hard on the surface with a white-hot flame blazing in their depths. They were both undressed before she could fully put in order in her mind the erratic movement of hands, arms, legs and tongues. Helene lay back and allowed Teddy Dolokhov to discover her body, learn it for the first time like he had never before. 

She moaned softly as his lips closed over her nipple and he sucked at it, making shivers erupt over her body. He kissed trails down her stomach and over her hips. His tongue found her inner thigh and then a spot on her neither parts which made sparks explode in front of her eyes and she cried out, desperate for a release which she had never felt with her husband. 

Helene pulled him up and kissed him, allowing her hands to come up and cup his face for a small, tender moment, before she whispered raggedly, “I _do_ want you to take me. I may be married, but I will always be yours.” 

He let out a sound, something between a groan and a loud sigh. She found her body flush against his and her back pressed firmly into the silk of the sheets. He filled her with his member and Helene sighed, feeling full to the brim, but for once it was a pleasant, welcome feeling. She only ever felt whole when she was with him. Sometimes, she felt that without him she would merely become a shell of a woman, tied by expectations and unwritten rules. But in the darkness, in the privacy of her own bedroom, with Teddy Dolokhov ravishing her body, she can reach out and grasp at some of that passionate flame that was meant to be life. He filled her and found every spot on her body which counted and exploded with pleasure at his touch. She could hardly breath as she spiraled toward her first ever orgasm. Helene arched her back and dug her nails into his shoulders. Her climax took over and she moaned something indistinguishable as waves of release rocked through her body. Theodore thrust several more times, deep into her and gave into his own release. 

They lay intertwined for several long moments after that, savoring the afterglow. Helene buried her face against Theodore’s shoulder as he drew out of her and rolled over to lay on his side next to her. He ran a hand through her hair and played with its ends. “Would you have me go?”

“I would have you stay,” she murmured. She looked up at him for a moment and forced herself to meet his eyes. “But only for a while. We must not forget ourselves.”

There was bitterness in his usual smirk; he hardly seemed to want to hide it. “Of course not.”

*~*

Of all the things, Helene may have wanted, a duel was not one of them. 

She had not even known about it until she heard the maids whispering about it in the maidservants’ quarters in the morning. She had not believed them and when she saw Pierre’s carriage coming back home before breakfast, she convinced herself that whatever her husband had been out doing it was certainly not a duel. Firstly, Theodore would certainly never do something so brash as to challenge her husband, that would be far too indiscrete, especially since Moscow’s gossips had already spread a rumor of their affair, despite the fact that they always exercised great caution. Secondly, Pierre simply did not duel. Helene couldn’t even say for sure if he owned a gun or had ever shot one. Besides, if Pierre and Theodore had dueled, there would be no way that Pierre returned from that altercation unharmed. Unless, of course…But no that was silly. 

Yet a certain unease settled over Helene. She watched from her window as Pierre stumbled gracelessly out of the carriage and up the steps. Nesvitski climbed out after and followed Pierre inside. Helene saw this as her only chance to find out what truly happened without potentially giving off the wrong impression. 

She checked herself in the mirror to make sure she was decently dressed and went downstairs, repressing the urge to take the stairs at a run. By the time she came into the sitting room, Pierre was gone. Nesvitski sat on the sofa, drinking the tea that a valet had just brought him. He looked tired and slightly miffed. 

“Ah, Countess.” He rose on seeing her and Helene offered him her hand with her usual social grace. She sat down opposite of him. 

“What brings you here so early, Monsieur Nesvitski?” Helene inquired in her most innocent tone. 

Nesvitski blanched. “You do not know?”

“Of what?” Helene could feel an iron ring tighten around her abdomen. 

Nesvitski carefully put down his teacup and gave her a serious look. “I’m surprised you do not know, although, I suppose Pierre did not tell you as not to worry you.” He suddenly seemed agitated. “He and Lieutenant Dolokhov had a falling out at the English Club. The count called Dolokhov a scoundrel and issued a challenge.” 

Helene suddenly desperately wished that she had taken a fan. “A duel?” Alarm seeped into her voice, but of course it was misinterpreted. 

“Oh, worry not, Countess. Pierre, miraculously, escaped without a scratch.”

“When did this happen?”

“Just this morning. I just brought the count back, he is in quite an upset state. Certainly he was not thinking of the consequences when he issued that challenge.” Nesvitski sighed. 

“And Dolokhov?” Helene caught herself and added, “Duels are so strictly punished, I would not want Pierre in too much trouble.”

Nesvitski shifted a little. “Dolokhov was not so lucky. He was badly wounded. I couldn’t say if he will live, but, knowing his sort, it’s not unlikely. I do hope our dear Count will not be too badly punished for this affair. I will speak to Count Rostov, we will attempt to hush it up.”

“Why Count Rostov?” Helene asked, although her mind was fixated on Nesvitski’s account of Theodore’s condition. _Badly wounded._ Dear God, how could this have happened?

“Oh his son was Dolokhov’s second. Him and a certain fellow Denisov.” 

Helene stood. “You must excuse me,” she said, smiling politely. “This is all very sudden for me. I do thank you for your care for my husband.” 

“Oh, yes, of course,” Nesvitski said, standing as well. He continued to mumble some niceties for another minute before Helene was finally free of him. She went up to her room and locked the door. Her mind raced wildly. She needed to know if Theodore was alright but Anatole was in Petersburg and he was the only one she could have entrusted such a thing to.

That meant, of course, that she would have to go herself. 

*

The Dolokhovs house was dark. Helene could not tell if anyone was even home or awake as the carriage drove up to the front porch. “Thank you,” Helene said quietly, handing the cabbie driver some coins and alighting onto the cleared path. She watched for a moment as the cabbie drove off before climbing the stairs of the porch and knocking. 

For some time there was silence. Then soft, hurried footsteps came toward her and the hinges creaked slightly as the door opened. Framed by the low burn of a candle in the hallway, appeared the pale, tired face of a girl several years younger than Helene. Her hair was braided into a thick braid and she resembled Theodore enough for Helene to guess: his sister. 

The girl peered uncertainly at her, at first not quite seeing her for – Helene figured she must have blended into the night in her dark dress, coat and veil – then finally asked, biting her lip, “May I help you?”

Helene lifted her dark veil to reveal her face. “Are you Galina Dolokhov?”

“Yes?” The girl’s face suddenly contorted with understanding. “You must be the Countess Bezukhov.” 

“Yes. May I come in?” 

Galina steped aside to let her pass. Helene came into the small hallway, looking around inquisitively. She realized that she had never seen Theodore’s house or how he and his family lived. The place was quaint but neat, the potted plants on the windowsills and light curtains on the windows were almost charming. Helene shrugged off her coat and Galina took it from her to hang up. There was obviously no abundance of servants in this household. Helene held her breath for a moment, then said quietly, “Galina Ivanovna, I’m terribly sorry to intrude so late, but I heard your brother has been in a most unpleasant altercation…He is a good friend of mine and my family. I would like…how is he?” 

Galina’s face scrunched up into an unpleasant expression of derision. “Please, Countess, let us at least not pretend that my brother did not risk his life for you.”

“I would have never asked him to.” Had she been some emotional, over-romantic fool, Helene may have been flattered. All she was – aside from terrified – was annoyed that Theodore would provoke Pierre to such an extent as to incite a challenge. From Pierre of all people! 

“That is beside the point.” Galina sighed and rubbed her temples. “Why are you here, Countess? Surely if anyone were to find out, the scandal would only go forth, and it would be only worse for you.”

“I know that,” Helene said quickly, trying to not snap. Her usual self-control was slipping. She did not want to talk about society now, she wanted to know if her lover was dying. The thought that this may be because of her gnawed dully at the pit of her stomach and she wanted to scream. Instead, she waited for Galina to pull herself together. “Whatever you may believe, Galina Ivanovna, I did not wish for this duel and I had no idea Theodore would—“

“It is your husband who challenged him!” The girl wrung her hands, obviously distraught at her own outburst and glanced worriedly over one shower toward the hallway leading to the private wing of the house. 

“Please. Can I see him? Or at least tell me how he is. That is all I want.”

Galina watched her face, her large brown eyes, velvety and soft, probably compassionate on most days, seemed to burn into Helene, trying to see if she were sincere or not. “Teddy’s in a dreadful state,” Galina said finally, surrendering to Helene’s unwavering resolve. “He was wounded in the side. The doctor said he did not think anything vital was hit so there is a chance that he will survive, at least as long as the wound stays clear. He wrote some directions, some medicines…said he would come back later tonight but never did. Count Rostov had brought him; he was Teddy’s second, said he would come back in the morning…oh this whole thing is just awful.” Galina covered her face with both hands and collected herself for a moment. 

Helene stood in the middle of the sitting room, watching Theodore’s sister struggle to hold back tears and felt something deep within her die. She suddenly felt utterly detached from everything that was going on around her, from the entire world. She thought that hearing that Theodore was alive, had a chance at surviving, would make her happy, would make her feel relieved. Instead, all she felt was completely numb and isolated. She had not wanted any of this – not the scandal, not this hardship for Theodore and his family. She suddenly noticed the plainness of the room, how worn the dress Galina wore looked, how empty the house seemed to be of all the glamour that one would usually expect in the home of someone from Helene’s circle. She was somehow utterly undone by the realization that Theodore was probably the sole supporter of his family, that his life was in some way very different from her own and that she had intruded upon it without even meaning to, throwing everything into disarray. She should not have been surprised, perhaps. Anatole had told he of the Dolokhovs’s situation long ago, but Theodore never acted like it, always carried himself with confidence and self-respect far above his socioeconomic station so that all those words and circumstances were merely concepts. She had never needed to truly face them. 

Accustomed to society plots and intrigues, these thoughts were new to Helene. She hardly before ever had to wonder about her effect on others, other than in context of how it would later affect her. Such was the way of the world – if one does not stand up for oneself, even at the cost of others, that person runs the risk of being trampled. But this was different in some way, different, because Helene had never felt so close to anyone – aside from Anatole – not even in her family. The thought of losing Theodore was dreadful, but the realization that this affair could tear them both apart, was even worse. It seemed that neither of them could any longer keep control of their emotions. He had dueled for her, she had risked her reputation coming here to see him. It had to end, but Helene had no idea how to end something which was grounding her. 

“I’m so sorry,” Helene said, the words sounding empty and hollow to her own ears. She reached out and put a hand on Galina’s arm. “If you would let me…I know Theodore would not like it, but…” She took out a small purse of coins and a piece of paper with the coordinates of her personal physician. “These are the coordinates of a good doctor, here take this…if it is not enough, tell him Helene Bezukhov asked him to do this as a favor. He knows me well, he will help.”

Galina looked doubtfully at the purse, as though it were poisonous, then slowly took it. “Thank you, Countess. It is better that Teddy not know. He does not like to take money for loan if he can help it.”

“Think of it as an apology, Galina Ivanovna. I wish I could help in some way, that I could stay…”

Galina nodded. “Thank you.” She bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder again. “Would you like to see him?”

“Yes.” Helene followed Galina down the corridor, feeling butterflies explode in her stomach. “Has he asked for me?”

Galina stopped at the door to Theodore’s room and looked back at Helene with what could have almost been a surprised expression. “No. But he hasn’t been conscious for most of the day,” she added quickly. 

_It’s better that way,_ Helene thought, despite the small jolt of disappointment. 

Galina opened the door and ushered Helene through, then stepped back into the darkness of the hallway and quietly closed the door behind herself. 

Helene took a death breath before preceding into the depths of the room. A smell of medicine and alcohol permeated the place and she felt a sick sensation rise up in her throat. Helene quashed the queasy feeling and hurried her steps. A single candle burned low in the corner, the bed shielded from its light with a drape. Helene sank down on the edge of the bed and forced herself to take in the sight before her. 

Theodore was pale, his soft curls plastered to his forehead with perspiration. His cheeks were bright, a feverish, unhealthy red. He slept or was unconscious, Helene could not be certain. His nightshirt was open at the top and Helene froze for a few moments, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. She had never gotten a chance to watch him sleep before. Their lovemaking had never ended in a full night together, neither of them wanting to be accidently discovered in the morning by an overenthusiastic maid or husband. 

Helene took his hand and held it tightly in hers. She had become so used to his strong hands that not feeling him press her hand in return scared her. What had they gotten themselves into? What would be the price next time? “I’m sorry,” she whispered softly, for the second time that night. It felt horrible to have to be sorry, it felt horrible to feel guilty and to not be able to convince herself otherwise. She reached up and ran a hand over Theodore’s forehead, brushing damp strands of hair out of his eyes. Passion did not scare her, but tenderness did. She was too attached, she was beginning to lose her head. And where had it brought them? Here? Helene was certain that _here_ was not a very good place to be for either of them. 

She had to leave, she had to get out of this entire mess, out of this affair which was destroying both of them in small insignificant ways which had suddenly become large and quite significant. Perhaps, Theodore had decided that he was willing to throw away everything for her, but she could not do the same for him and it wasn’t fair and it wasn’t what she wanted. 

She would have to keep her distance and he would not forgive her for that, especially if he had decided that she was worth more to him than his pride. If Theodore had meant to kill Pierre to make her his own then he either did not know her at all or he loved her enough to want to take the chance that he could change her mind. She was losing him without even realizing it. 

It hurt terribly, more than any choice she had ever had to make. But it seemed that if she wanted this to come out on its own terms, she would have to make a choice after all. And she had always chosen in favor of the beautiful Princess Kuragin rather than the girl Helene, whoever she might be. 

Helene leaned down and brushed her lips over Theodore’s in a gentle kiss. It would have to do. She stood and left the room. Galina saw her to the door and Helene carefully, meticulously put on her coat and veil before leaving the house. She returned home the way she had left – in a cabbie. As far as she knew, no one had missed her. 

The next morning, she would confront Pierre – the only outlet of frustration and pain that she would allow herself – to tell him that he was an idiot for believing everything he heard. Then, she would leave for Petersburg and stay there, perhaps even go abroad for some time. Teddy Dolokhov’s pride would do the rest.


End file.
